The Uncertainty of Fate
by Strawberri12
Summary: In the midst of December 2018, a broken girl meets a beautiful boy. Ana finds herself both intrigued and humored by him, yet there is a certain feeling about him that warns her something's off. Should she trust him and let him take her to places she's never even dreamed of, or should she go home to comfort her mourning father?
1. At First Glance

Disclaimer: Most characters belong to E. L. James.

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1\. At First Glance

He strode through the third floor of the Shanghai Pudong International Airport, an aura of confidence surrounding him even without his familiar bodyguard present. Even at a distance from the gate counter, he seemed slightly aggravated as he spoke into a phone, frowning as he listened.

Though it was late December, the young heir to his father's company, worth billions, was dressed lightly in jeans and a grey-blue button down, his golden hair tousled and his bright, grey eyes regarding the world around him with a fervent intenseness. He held a brown, leather briefcase in one hand and his boarding pass was out in the other, a black leather jacket draped across his left arm. His passport was nowhere to be seen, but then again, he didn't really need identification—he was already listed in _Forbes Magazine_ as the second richest heir of the _world_.

He came up to the gate counter and cleared his throat politely. The staff at hand, a woman in her late twenties, jumped and, when she looked up, gaped. Realizing that, she closed her mouth rather audibly with her cheeks burning. "Um, this is the gate to flight 2289. Boarding has already been closed for—"

The young man smiled wryly. "Then I'm sure you'll be able to make an exception. You see, I'm rather good friends with the boss of your company, Miss—" his eyes quickly flashed down to her name tag, pinned on her uniform—"Mason, and I'm sure I can send in a word about how helpful you've been." He held her gaze for a few seconds longer than what she considered appropriate, and when she finally tore her eyes away, she felt like she was burning. _Burning_.

Wordlessly, he slid his boarding pass smoothly across the counter, assuming correctly that she would bid to his requests. Her fingers were shaking, shaking so badly, when she set his boarding pass besides her screen and checked him in. _First class, seat 4A. Mr. Christian Grey._ The typing calmed her slightly, but she was still trembling when she handed it back. _His eyes melting into hers, his hands pulling her closer to him as he leaned in—_ she shook herself out of her fantasies.

"You're all set, Mr. Grey," she said, avoiding his gaze as she grabbed a walkie-talkie from her desk. "Code 314, open the gates, open the gates, a new passenger has arrived. Repeat, code 314." She set it down, feeling slightly foolish as two members of her team came running out to escort the _new passenger_ through the tunnel connecting the boarding gate and the plane itself. They gave her a look, one that said, _Really? You've just delayed departure by another fifteen minutes!_

She just sighed. She would have to explain herself later, about how the _new passenger_ knew their boss, but as she thought it over, she realized how unlikely it seemed that _he_ would know her boss personally. He was so much younger, probably born two generations later than the stout, sixty year old man she'd seen waddling through the crowds during their company's biannual spot-checks. She tried to imagine their conversation, but came up with a blank slate. _Oh, good god._ Why did she ever believe him? Why did she ever do it—abiding to him, and annoying the rest of her team? It had definitely _not_ been worth it.

Yet: "Miss Mason—thank you. I appreciate your help." Mr. Grey gave her one last look before being whisked off. _Oh, yes,_ she thought dreamily, _it was worth it. It was worth it. To hear that voice, to—_

She suddenly snapped out of it as his name sank in. _Grey. Christian Grey._ "Oh, my lord," she said, groaning as she sank her head into her arms. "I just met the second richest heir of the world and completely _blew_ it."

She stayed like that for a few minutes longer before realizing she still had his information pulled up on her computer. She didn't mean to, not really, but somehow she found herself scrolling through it.

Birthday: n/a, n/a, 2000. _He's eighteen?_ she thought to herself, slightly incredulous. _I'd have thought he was at least twenty._ Birthplace: n/a. Citizenship: n/a.

 _Is there anything that_ is _applicable?_


	2. Flashbacks and Surprises

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Again, most characters belong to E. L. James.

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2\. Flashbacks and Surprises

I had arrived three hours early.

That was when all the seats in the boarding area next to Gate 14 were still empty. I'd sat down near the windows in the first row closest to the counter—not that there was much to look at anyway, except for cloudy skies and the occasional drifting of light snow.

My dear father hadn't even bothered to see me off from my grandparents' penthouse. He'd simply called for a car to pick me up at two, instructing the driver to get me to Shanghai's Pudong airport before my flight took off. The Chinese driver, unsure of how to pronounce my name, had gone so far into the trouble as to have made a handwritten poster with my name—Anastasia Steele—inscribed in black ink on the white canvas with delicate calligraphy. I don't know how long he'd been holding it up, but when I exited the revolving doors, he had it sticking out the top of the car—one in a long line where other private cars and taxis were also stalling.

That was the only thing that had gotten a laugh out of me all day, though I couldn't help noticing that my father had evidently neglected to mention that I much preferred just to be called Ana.

He also didn't call to tell me he'd made the arrangements; I'd only found out from my grandparents that very morning over breakfast. Originally, I'd thought I was staying for the entire break, but my obviously my father wanted to usher me off back to Chicago. So, without a protest against my father's wishes like a good little girl, I'd quickly said my goodbyes to my grandparents and packed up my suitcase—not that I had brought much with me. Then I'd gotten into the black Lexus with my bags, shut the door, and had shed a few silent tears in the backseat as the driver swiftly pulled away from the curb.

So, I can't exactly say today been the greatest day of my life. Speaking of which, my eyes were also aching from having spent the previous two and a half hours with my head buried in _The Best American Essays of the Century—_ the book which I'd been assigned to read over break for English—and a blue pen in my other hand as I attempted to annotate in the side margins. _Attempted,_ meaning I keep finding myself stuck on one page as my mind wanders elsewhere. Not that the book isn't great—I'd even go so far to describe it as fascinating—but I just can't seem to get myself into the stories. My mind just isn't focusing on—

"Excuse me, miss."

I jump a little, my pen almost slipping out of my hand. "Pardon me?" I look up to see an old man with brilliantly white hair, sporting a pinstriped shirt beneath faded, denim overalls. A heavy overcoat drapes over his shoulders, and his small frame is hunched over an elaborately carved cane that I can't help admiring. A small, carry-on suitcase is gripped tightly in his other hand. Despite his age, his eyes are alert and bright, brimming with energy.

"Is the seat next to you taken?"

"Oh! No, not at all. I'm sorry, I'll just—" I hurriedly rise and gather my red shoulder bag, my coat, and my phone, "—clear it right away."

"No, _my_ apologies," the elderly man says as he eases himself down. "I wouldn't have asked if any other seats were available or if my old body wasn't so fragile." He gives a little chuckle, then looks around, seeming very satisfied with himself. "The seats sure fill up fast, don't they?"

I smile politely in response.

"So, aren't you a little too young to be traveling alone?" he asks a moment later as he pulls out a battered copy of the newspaper from within his suitcase. "Where are your parents?"

He says something else afterwards but I don't hear it. A wave of grief mixed with despair washes over me. _My parents._ I'd forgotten I could put them together and label them as a unit. I've simply thought of them as _mother_ and _father_ separately for so long that I'd forgotten how I used to think of the three of us as a family. _Family._ The word feels foreign in my mind.

I swallow hard as I try to formulate a response. Finally, I say, "They're currently preoccupied with…other matters." I don't meet his eyes even though I can feel his gaze scrutinizing my expression, waiting for me to continue. But when I don't, he simply nods understandingly and eases himself into his seat to admire the dreary view.

Trying to keep my hands steady, I busy myself with putting my book back into my bag and finding my boarding pass from within it. My mouth trembles with the effort of keeping in a sob as I try to stop my tears from spilling over, and for once, they seem to subside after a minute or so. I let out a breath of relief. I hate making a scene in public.

I note the time on my watch—4:55—then glance up at the large, flashing display reporting the estimated departure times that are more commonly late than punctual. In bold red text, it notes that Flight 2289, heading for Chicago, has been delayed for half an hour. _Thirty five minutes left to go_ , my subconscious thinks flatly as she flops, facedown, onto her bed with a groan. _Yippee._

Three hours. Three whole hours that I've spent trying to stop myself from thinking, to stop myself from _remembering_. Every time I close my eyes, I see my mother, dressed in those flakey hospital gowns and lying in the bed across from mine in the cramped room of the infirmary. Her face is pale and sallow, no longer carrying the rosy glow she once had. In a dreamlike state, she cries out my name, my father's name, moaning softly as she curls into a tiny ball, huddling further into her bedsheets. I sit by her bedside and reach out to hold her hand, but she's still trembling; she doesn't know I'm here, doesn't know when anyone's here. She's only living in her mind now, no longer aware of anything going on around her. I cradle her hand in mine: it's so frail now, so rough. I swallow back my tears, but they still trail down my cheeks. _My mother. This is my mother now._

I gasp, my eyes flying open. I didn't even realize when they'd closed. With my hands shaking, I pull out a tissue from my bag and wipe the tears from my face. I will not cry. I will _not_ cry.

Holding her hand in mine, that was the last time I saw my mother. I don't remember the rest of it. It's all a blur, coming to think of it, though it had only been nine days since.

Four months ago, right before my senior year of high school had begun, she and I had both been diagnosed—her with small cell lung cancer, and myself with diabetes. Both having been untreated for months, unknowingly. I'd replayed that day so many times in my mind, first simply just for myself to accept it, but now more because I can't seem to stop it from being on repeat.

 _The nurse first knocked on our door, sounding rather timid. "Come in!" my mother had called, laughing as she tickled me and I'd squealed, jumping up from where I sat on her knees. My father had looked upon us with a slight disapproving look, but he, too, smiled when I looked over at him, standing just to the left of my mother's chair._

 _When she came in, the nurse quickly shut the door behind her and that's when I got the feeling that something was wrong. But nothing_ could _be wrong, right? We were all perfectly healthy!_

 _Yet the feeling that she was about to deliver bad news further intensified when the nurse cleared her throat and checked for our names. By that point, my mother seemed to have gotten the hint as well and a look of seriousness had dawned across her face._

 _But nothing could've prepared any of us for the diagnoses. My mother—lung cancer? Whaaaaaat? She'd_ never _smoked, and was passionately opposed to anything similar of the sort! And myself—diabetes. Diabetes. What would've been a hard blow was only adding a little more fuel to the fire; I was already in too much shock about my mother's diagnosis._

 _It'd taken me days to finally understand that my mother, my sweet, intelligent, caring mother, would be gone in the span of four months, if she was lucky._ Lucky. _All of a sudden, four months seemed like such a short amount of time, when I used to think a month was too long._

"Ah, excuse me, miss?" The elderly man sitting besides me gently nudges me in the shoulder as he and, seemingly everyone else around me, starts getting up from their seat. "Boarding for flight 2289 has just begun. I thought you would've liked to know."

"Thank you," I say gratefully as I scramble up and collect my belongings. I hold out a hand. "Ana Steele."

He grins a wide, toothy smile as he reaches out and shakes my hand firmly. "Jeffrey Kraughlin. CEO of Republic Airlines. Congratulations, Ana, you have been upgraded to first class."

"Wait, _what_?"


	3. Christian Grey

3\. Christian Grey

I clutch the handle of my suitcase tightly as I roll it onto the plane, my heart thumping both in disbelief and sheer elation.

 _You have been upgraded_ , my subconscious sings, cartwheeling nonstop to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb. _Upgraded, upgraded. You have been upgraded, and congratulat—!_

"Miss? May I see your boarding pass?" the stewardess asks impatiently, frowning at me as she holds out a hand. She's quite young and very pretty, dressed in the standard uniform with her blond hair pulled back in a flawless bun.

"Oh! Yes, sorry." I struggle for a moment to slide my boarding pass out of my bag. "Here you go."

She briefly glances down at my ticket, then does a slight double-take when she sees my seat. I don't miss the once over she gives me, her eyebrows raised. _No doubt I'll be part of her gossip amongst the other stewardesses throughout the long flight_ , I think wryly.

She clears her throat. "You're in…seat 4B. This way." She points left. I thank her politely, then step out of the way so she can move on to the next passenger behind me.

As I pull my suitcase down the more spacious aisle of business class, I can't help but notice how their facilities are so much nicer than that of economy. _It's also more expensive,_ my subconscious reminds me. _Shut up,_ I suggest.

Compared to business class, it's such a chore to shuffle past the crowded seats of economy where the walkways are cramped and the all the passengers are eyeing each other with distaste. I always end up tripping over someone's feet on my way to my seat, and that someone always returns my apology with a glare. And as those incidents usually happen about three times each flight—well, I've had my fair share of apologizing on planes.

Preoccupied with my thoughts, I don't even notice when I've hit first class until I push back a set of curtains. Gingerly, I step into the cabin, my eyes wide as I take in everything. The large, plush leather chairs. The beautiful, cherrywood panels that separate each seat into a small cubicle. And the TV screens—for once, they actually seem to be able to process HD resolution.

"May I help you with your luggage?"

I jump a little, turning to see another stewardess standing behind me, looking slightly sheepish at having startled me. I give her a reassuring smile. "Yes, please. Thank you."

I watch as she lifts my suitcase up with ease and slides it in the overhead compartment. She looks young for a stewardess, even younger than the other one. Her brown hair is pulled back into a different bun, but likewise impeccable. _What is it with stewardesses and their perfect hair?_

Five minutes later, I have discovered that my leathered seat not only has heating capabilities, but can also lay all the way down until it's pretty much flat. Besides the storage space above, there's also a small cabinet where I can keep my bag within arm's length.

Contentedly, I kick my feet up on the wooden counter opposite my seat, admiring my black, heeled ankle boots. They were the last gift I received from my mother, and I'd insisted on wearing them today so I could feel closer to her.

In honor of my mother, and to keep up appearances, I'd decided to dress in something besides the sweats I'd buried myself in for the past week—leather boots, my favorite pair of jeans that hug my hips just right, and a pale pink, off-the-shoulder top with sleeves that flare out from my elbows. I hadn't planned on wearing a coat since it's been unusually warm this winter, but my grandmother had insisted that I wear my cashmere coat, a gift from my aunt in London. She had also adored me with a pair of 24k gold cherry studs before I'd left—the ones she'd been given by her grandmother when her own mother had died.

Pulling myself back into reality, I start reaching into my bag for my phone, then hesitate. I haven't checked it in weeks, and judging from the countless _dings!_ that I'd received in the first couple of days here before I'd turned it off, I'll probably be spending a day in bed once I get back, sending out replies and reconnecting with social media since my little hiatus.

The last text I'd sent out had been to my best friend, Kate, reassuring her that I was fine and I would only be out of town for a couple of weeks. She'd been bombarding me with questions about why I'd left school in such a hurry on the last day of the semester, when we should've been celebrating the end of finals week. I sigh. Kate is wonderful, really, but her inquisitions can sometimes be too much.

And it's not that I want to avoid everyone. I just wanted whatever quiet time I could get with my family, away from the distractions of my phone and the rest of the world. I could at least grant myself that much.

However…I _could_ use some music. The low drone of the two engines, usually soothing, are driving me crazy. I pull out my earphones and then my phone, ignoring all the messages that pop up one after the other; I'll scroll through them later.

Tucking my earbuds in, I set my playlist on shuffle and pull out my black Moleskine journal and a pen. I let the ink trail across a blank page, doodling mindlessly whatever comes to mind. I find myself sketching out pairs of eyes in all sorts of different expressions: sad, happy, surprised, tired—

"Eek!"

A squeal makes me turn around in my seat. A herd of six stewardesses have gathered by the entrance to first class just behind my seat, all with their perfect hair and pressed uniforms. The one who'd pointed me to my seat is holding court. I lean back so they won't see me, but I pause my music and pull out one earbud so I can hear better.

"Did you see him?" she's saying breathlessly. "The hot guy who just strolled on board? He was chatting with the pilot the last time I checked."

"Who, him?" someone else says, and I hear the clatter of their heels whirling around, a chorus of squeals, and then scuttling as they hurry to hide in the storage area in disguise of searching for extra blankets and pillows. I raise an eyebrow. I wonder what he looks like. Since most of the stewardesses seem to be around their early to mid twenties…perhaps he's also in his mid-twenties?

"Yes! That's him!" the first says excitedly after a moment, and is quickly hushed by the others. There's a pause, and then she says, dreamily, "Oh God, I could stare at him all day and never be bored."

"You realize he's walking towards us?" the one who'd put my luggage overhead says drily.

That brings another wave of squeals as a different set of footsteps approaches.

"Hello! Welcome to flight 2289," the first stewardess squeaks, and her voice is followed by a couple of nervous giggles from the others.

"Hello, ladies." _Holy crap_. His voice is deep and masculine—velvety, almost.

"Is there anything we could help you with? Drinks? Pillows? Blankets?" one of them hints suggestively, her voice low and seductive. I have to clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing.

There's a moment of uncomfortable silence as the meaning of her words sink in.

"Thank you, but this is not the time." He has the grace to sound amused, but with a hint of disapproval. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to."

I hear rustling as the stewardesses mumble apologies and scoot aside, and a moment later his footsteps approach. I turn back to my doodling. For a moment, there's silence, and then, unexpectedly—

"Hello."

I look up into a pair of fervently intense grey eyes staring right into mine. For a moment I'm stuck, mesmerized—until I pull my eyes away. _Get yourself together, Ana!_ my subconscious scolds.

I clear my throat. "Hi," I say, not quite looking at him. I fumble to pull my other earbud out and quickly stand up, smoothing down the front of my shirt.

He's so much younger than I'd expected, and definitely not over twenty. I try to steady my breathing with no avail; my heart continues to flutter. _What is this effect he has on women?_

"Christian Grey." He holds his hand out, and in a daze, I put my hand in his and we shake.

"Anastasia Steele—Ana."

His fingers linger on mine for a moment longer than necessary, and I find myself blushing. I pull my hand away first, embarrassed.

"It's nice to meet you," I blurt out as we stand there.

Christian seems amused, but I can't tell. "The pleasure's all mine, Miss Steele," he responds smoothly, and I attempt for a smile.

He pulls a manila envelope out of his suitcase—black, with his initials embroidered on the front in light grey cursive—then zips it up and lifts it easily up into the storage.

Then he turns to leave, probably to attend to the business he'd mentioned earlier. I bite my lip, trying to quell a rise of disappointment. _Why do I feel this way?_

 _His demeanor was nothing but polite, Ana_ , my subconscious reminds me gently, and I have to admit she's right. He may have been flirting with me, but then again, I probably just imagined it all.

 _He only greeted you because you both will be spending the next twelve hours sitting next to each other in a confined space._ But I can't get rid the butterflies in my stomach, the—

He glances back at me a moment before he's out of sight. "Anastasia," he says as a farewell.

"Christian," I reply, unable to tear my eyes away.

I only look down when he's blocked by the seat in front of me.


	4. Go or Stay

4\. Go or Stay

A soft knock brings me out of my muddled thoughts. I turn and look up to see the second stewardess lingering uncomfortably in the aisle, her arms hanging by her side as if she doesn't know what to do with them. She looks hesitant, like she want to say something but isn't sure how to start.

I smile politely, trying to look expectant.

"Um." She clears her throat and looks down, avoiding my gaze. "Mr. Kraughlin has requested a meeting with you in the cockpit. Would you follow me, please?"

"Oh! Of course." I stand up hastily, slipping my phone in my back pocket as I follow her down the aisle towards the front of the plane.

Likewise to first class, I have never been anywhere near the front of the plane. When we get there, the stewardess gestures for me to wait by the door as she heads in first, probably to clear my entrance with the pilots.

I clasp my hands together as I wait, a little flicker of excitement and nervousness running through me. I tell myself that whatever wonders are in there, I won't make a fool of myself when I step inside the cockpit and meet the pilots. I don't want to seem like another tourist intruding upon their space. I'm still caught up in my thoughts when the stewardess reappears a moment later, and she clears her throat to get my attention.

"They—the pilots—are ready for you," she says, bowing and stepping aside to let me pass. I focus on the ground as I walk, trying not to stumble on my way in, and feel a certain sense of satisfaction when I don't trip over the small ledge of the doorway. I look up, intending to greet the two pilots—

and I gape.

The entirety of the sunset is spread out across the horizon before me, a beautiful landscape of fading colors. I tentatively step further in, careful not to touch any of the the meters and switches lining the wall as I move forward to get a closer look. I wish I had my camera on me.

"Mr. Kraughlin be here shortly," the stewardess tells me, and I nod mutely, still entranced. I almost don't hear her footsteps fading away.

A few moments later, one of the pilots gets up from his seat. He's quite tall, Asian, and his black hair is cut short, military-style. The other pilot is slouched over his seat, so all I can see of him from where I stand is his sultry blonde hair. He's the kind of guy who girls at my school would throw themselves at.

The Asian pilot clears his throat and speaks in chipped English. "Hello, Miss—"

"Steele. Ana Steele," I reply. I smile and reach forward to shake his hand, more out of habit than anything else. He looks slightly taken back at the idea of having contact with a passenger, but recovers quickly and shakes my hand firmly.

Then he pauses for a moment, clearly trying to translate his words into English—

"I speak Chinese, too," I add in Mandarin, and he raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed.

I find that I'm not offended anymore. I was, at first, when people didn't realize I was bilingual and half Chinese, but I guess I can't blame them. I look every bit Caucasian, except for my eyes—dark brown and almond-shaped.

Though my mother is Chinese, my father is English and speaks with a native British accent. I have his dark brown hair, his stubbornness, his preference for punctuality, and his critical eye, always quick to judge. But I also have my mother's dark almond eyes, her temper, as well as her humor and her never-ending curiosity. An interesting combination, my father's told me. I've never been sure what to make of that.

"Chen Xijun. Pleased to be at your service," he says in Mandarin, immediately abandoning his crappy attempt at English. "I'm going to be the captain for your ride today, and he is my co-pilot," he says, nodding towards the other, the blonde. First Officer, I note, from the inscription of his jacket that's slung over his chair. He raises his hand in a lazy salute.

"M'lady," he slurs, speaking in English, and I realize he is drunk.

"Is he…is he going to be alright?" I ask.

Xijun looks mildly embarrassed. "Ah. He'll be fine in eight hours. Last night was his friend's bachelor party, and he had a little too much to drink. He's just slightly intoxicated, so—"

"So I'll be taking his place," says a voice from the doorway that sounds oddly familiar yet I can't seem to place it. I turn around—only for my eyes to meet _his_ dark grey ones.

I almost gasp out loud, and nearly trip as I stumble in my turn. Xijun catches me by the arm and helps me up.

My cheeks feel hot. They must be bright red from embarrassment, and I want to crawl into a hole and die. _Ana,_ my subconscious groans, hiding her face in her arms. _That was the worst possible time to fall. And into the wrong man's arms._

 _Who said I want Christian Grey_? I snap back defensively at my subconscious, but then I bite my lip. _Do_ I want him? _I don't know. Oh, I. Don't. Know._

I can't think with him standing here in front of me, all five foot eleven inches of him. He's very, _very_ attractive.

"Mr. Grey," Xijun greets, smiling widely at Christian.

"Mr. Chen." Christian nods. Then he turns to me. "Anastasia." My knees turn weak as he looks searchingly between the captain and me, his head slightly tilted.

Xijun tightens his grip on my arm, almost possessively, and I shift uncomfortably. I want to wrench my arm out of his grasp. _Nothing's going on between us,_ I want to shout, to make it clear to the world, but I don't because clearly this isn't the right time. Instead, I gently tug my arm free. Xijun resists for a moment, clearly reluctant, but he finally lets me go.

Desperate to fill the awkward silence, I open my mouth and say—"Hi, Christian. I didn't know you knew how to pilot." The words fall out before I can run them through my mind, and my subconscious smacks herself on the head. _Hi, Christian—is that the best you can come up with? You're hopeless._

He looks amused. "Piloting has always been a hobby of mine," he explains as he strides over—not to me, but to the co-pilot. He nudges the blonde until he rolls over. "Hey. Elliot. Wake up."

Elliot groans and slowly sits up. "Hey, little brother," he says, yawning. Somehow, he still manages to sound cheerful. "Where's Xijun?"

"Right over there. God, Elliot, what happened to you last night? Xijun calls me at four in the morning saying he needs backup because you were too drunk to even talk?"

Elliot catches sight of me in the middle of Christian's sentence. "Hey, who's the babe, Christian?" He gives me a wink.

I'm fairly certain my cheeks are bright pink by now.

" _Elliot._ " Christian sighs and does the introductions. "Anastasia, meet my brother, Elliot. Elliot, this is Anastasia. She sits in the seat across the aisle from me."

"Hi Anastasia," Elliot says brightly, extending a hand.

"Just Ana, actually," I say, and we shake.

"So, Ana." Elliot crosses his legs over the armrest as he turns to face us. "What are you doing here if you're supposed to be sitting in first class?" he asks me casually.

"Um, well, Mr. Kraughlin said he'd meet me here," I say, remembering again why I'm even here.

"Mr. Kraughlin, huh?" Elliot grins. "Looks like you've got some competition for your new best friend, Christian."

"Oh, shut up, Elliot," Christian gives his brother a look. "It was for your sake or I wouldn't have come in the middle of a business meeting to plead your case."

"Thanks, Christian. I mean it. But I have to say, I owe a large part of my well-being to Xijun." Elliot manages to sound slightly abashed as he glances over at Xijun, who has long given up on trying to follow our conversion. Instead, he's sitting in his seat, listening to music through a pair of headphones and nodding his head along to the beat. I try imagining Christian doing the same and almost choke.

"That man never does anything against the rules, but he also never tattletales on me—I'll have to thank him again for not ratting me out. From what I've heard, Xijun and Mr. Kraughlin go way back. Xijun has him on speed dial and everything." Elliot sighs. "This is my third time being drunk when I know I have to be on duty the next day."

" _Elliot_." Christian reprimands. "As much as I enjoy piloting, this is your job. And you cannot afford to throw this chance away—remember how long it took for Mom to get you this spot?"

Elliot holds up both hands. "Guilty. I know. But I can explain," he says. "The first time was because, okay, I hadn't had a drink in a month and I was craving it. Then everyone came and got a drink and it kind of got overboard," he admitted.

"The second time was because it was Mia's birthday—you were there, too—and hey, a big brother's gotta celebrate on their little sister's special day! And this time was because it was Jordan's bachelor party and it was just us guys again—" he shakes his head, smiling. "I know I shouldn't have, but it was totally worth it."

Christian raises an eyebrow. "Worth losing your job over?"

"Okay, maybe not," Elliot says. "But come on, Christian, I hadn't seen those guys in ages! It's not like you haven't met them before—you know how persuasive they can be."

"So you think it's okay for you to risk the safety of the other passengers on this plane?" comes a sharp voice. Mr. Kraughlin hobbles in, his blue eyes piercing.

"Hello again, Christian. Ana. Xijun." His eyes warm when he greets us and shakes our hands, patting me on the back. Then he turns to Elliot, expectant for an explanation.

Elliot grimaces a second before he puts on a smile. "Hi Mr. Kraughlin! How has your afternoon been?"

"Delightful, but that is not why I'm here and you know it." He looks sternly at Elliot for a moment before his features soften. "You know I hate to chastise you, boy, but I can't have you keep running out in the night and skipping work. People are already talking about my favoritism towards you."

Elliot hangs his head. "I'm sorry, really," he says sincerely. "I promise—it won't happen again."

"That's what you said last time." Mr. Kraughlin sighs. "You're a great pilot and a good person, and I would hate to fire you. You have one chance left to prove you to me that you want this job enough not to go partying again. You're lucky your brother here is also an excellent pilot and is willing to be Xijun's backup for today."

Elliot nods. "I understand. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Mr. Kraughlin smiles at him. "Good. I believe you. Now go get some rest and I'll call your mother personally to tell her you're alright. And remember to take a shower when you get home, Elliot, you smell awful."

Elliot grins and hops out of his chair. "Thank you, Mr. Kraughlin. I won't let you down." Then he ruffles Christian's hair. "The seat's all yours, little brother," he says as he bounds off to find seat 4A.

Mr. Krauglin looks after Elliot with a smile, shaking his head. "That kid," he mutters fondly. Then he turns to Xijun. "Is the plane ready for take-off?"

"Yessir." Xijun snaps on his headphones again and sends a message to the crew.

"Christian, are you sure you're ready? I know you're an excellent pilot, and I appreciate your dedication to your brother, but he is in no danger of losing his job just yet, and I can call in another pilot anytime if you feel like you can't handle this."

Christian gives Mr. Kraughlin a reassuring smile. "I'm ready. You have nothing to worry about, sir."

"All right, then." Mr. Kraughlin then turns to me. "Ana." He gives me a long look, like he doesn't know where to begin. I wait for him to find his words.

"I wanted to meet you again to pay my condolences to your mother. She was a wonderful woman, and she loved your father dearly. When I first saw you the airport, you looked so much like her, but I wasn't sure until you introduced yourself." He looks at me, his eyes both sad yet fond, and reaches out pat my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

I'm frozen. It's like the air around me has chilled within the last ten seconds while he was speaking. "You—you knew my mother?" I manage to say.

"She was a doctor herself, was she not?" Mr. Kraughlin says. "She treated me when I had hepatitis C, and I am forever in debt to her for restoring my health the best she could."

I swallow the knot in my throat. "If she were here, she would say she's just glad you're feeling better."

Mr. Kraughlin smiles kindly at me. "The cockpit is the most beautiful place in the plane, and I hope you enjoy the view as much as I do." That's all he says before he leaves—but not before giving me another pat on the shoulder.

He has one of the stewardesses pull up a miniature hammock-like chair for me, and I sit there with my knees to my chest, watching Christian and Xijun give orders and send comms back to the main building.

"Are you okay?" Christian asks me gently.

"I'll be okay."

He studies me intently with those dark, grey eyes of his, and I feel myself blushing again. "If it helps," he says hesitantly, "I…don't know who my father is."

I tilt my head, not understanding. "What about Elliot? And…Mia, was it?"

A smile forms on his lips when I mention his siblings. "Yes, Elliot and Mia, and my adoptive parents—they're wonderful. I could not have asked for a better, more loving family." I don't miss the protective tone in his voice.

"You still have your father, don't you?" he prompts after a moment.

"Yeah, if you count a father who sends his daughter off before her mother's funeral just because he wants the attention." I roll my eyes. "He didn't even see me off the airport." I try to hide the hurt in my voice, but it slips out anyway.

Christian stares at me, appalled. "He did that?"

"Yes. And he's allowed to, because he's still my guardian and he can make me do whatever the hell he wants"

Xijun leans over right then and taps Christian on the arm. "Headphones," he says. "Engines start in two minutes."

Christian nods distractedly and turns back to me. " _Do_ you want to be at her funeral?" he asks.

"Yeah, I mean, I want to be there for her when—" I break off as Christian suddenly grabs my wrist and pulls me up. A little gasp escapes me when he touches my hand again, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Come on. We're going." He grabs his leather jacket draped across the back of the co-pilot seat. "I'll have Mr. Kraughlin send in a replacement," he tells Xijun as he leads me out of the cockpit towards our seats.

"Wait! Christian!" I start to say as I race behind him.

"Anastasia—pack," he commands as he pulls both of our suitcases down from the overhead compartment, each in one motion. "Elliot, tell Mom I'll be back on the last flight tomorrow."

Elliot sneaks me a grin. "Have fun, little brother," he says before Christian whisks me down towards the exit.

"Christian! Wait!" I say as I hurriedly zip up my shoulder bag while trying to keep up with his long strides. "Where are we going?"

"To your mother's funeral," he says simply as he pulls our suitcases behind him. Because he's Christian Grey, the flight attendants don't question him when he motions for them to open the gate to let us leave. "You know the address, right?"

I don't know why I'm still following him. "Yeah, but—but my name's not on the guest list!" I say frantically. "I can't just crash my mother's funeral!"

"Yes, you can. You have every right to." He slips his phone out of his pocket and types in a number. "Hello, Mr. Kraughlin, this is Christian. I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid Anastasia and I have to go back in the city to attend her mother's funeral…yes, yes that would be wonderful…Could you get us on the guest list?…Thank you." He ends the call without saying good-bye and looks at me expectantly.

"I—" I pause. I have to admit, his idea is becoming more and more appealing to me by the second.

"Anastasia." He says my name impatiently, but even so, it sends a thrill through me. "We don't have all day."

I take a deep, shaky breath. "Fine. I'll come—" I say, and for the first time, I see elation light up his eyes, "—but only if you stop calling me by my full name and start calling me Ana."

Christian grins—actually _grins_. "I almost didn't think you had it in you, _Ana_ ," he says, and my subconscious claps her hands approvingly.

I look up at him just as his beautiful gray eyes turn to meet mine. We hold each other's gaze just for the moment before the gates open, but that one moment feels like forever, like we're in our own world and there's just the two of us. Nobody else except us.

I can tell he's affected by it, too, by the way he swallows and has to look away for a moment before he moves. "Come on," Christian says gruffly as we hurry to find an elevator to bring us to the ground floor of the airport.

I have to admit it to myself— _I've never felt this way about anyone._ He's the reason I'm rebelling against my father's wishes, that I'm ignoring the consequences and acting in the moment. But he's also the reason I'm on my way to attend my mother's funeral.

He's the reason I feel hope right now—any hope at all.


	5. Route Talk

5\. Route Talk

Ever the gentleman, Christian pulls both of our suitcases along behind him as we hurry through the crowds in the airport.

"When does the funeral start?" he asks as we go. He doesn't sound out of breath at all. Meanwhile, I'm half-running besides him, trying to keep up with his large strides.

"Tomorrow morning…9 AM…" I gasp.

Christian comes to an abrupt halt, and I almost run into him.

"Hey! You can't just stop in the middle of a crowd!" I snap at him irritably as I circle around him. I take another couple of steps forward, then realize he's still stationary and other people are grumpily weaving around him.

"Maybe _you_ should watch where you're going," he teases me as he pulls our suitcases to the side into a random boarding area.

"What are you doing?" I ask crossly.

"The funeral's at nine?" he confirms, and I nod. A glint appears in his eyes. "So we have an entire night's time to spend."

I don't miss the _we_ in his sentence _—_ my cheeks blush furiously and I turn my gaze to the ground. "Oh. Right," I mutter, suddenly feeling subdued as I settle onto a bench. He takes a seat besides me, crossing one of his long legs over the other and tapping his fingers on one knee.

Finally, the silence unnerves me and I look up at him. "So. Mr. Grey. Any ideas on where we're going tonight?"

He tilts his head at me. "Your call," he says, a slight smile on his lips. "Any favorites you want to revisit?"

I blush, looking down. "I actually haven't been in the city yet," I mumble.

There's another moment of silence, and I look up to see Christian regarding me with a puzzled and surprised look. And…is he intrigued? My heart thuds in my chest, but I try to seem nonchalant. "What?" I say defiantly.

"You were born here," he says slowly, "but you've never been in the city?"

I shrug. "Yeah." Then my head snaps up. "How do you know where I was born?"

Christian calmly returns my accusatory look. "I have Taylor, my bodyguard, go through the files of anybody I come into contact with," he says smoothly, like it's a completely normal thing to do.

It takes me a moment to absorb his words. In a way, I feel honored to have been searched up. But…I also feel invaded. Bare. "How much _do_ you know about me?" I ask curiously, but he sidesteps the question cleanly.

"Taylor should arrive at any moment," he says briskly, glancing down at the screen of his phone. And just like that, gone is the teasing Christian. He's business-like again as he speaks into it, his words sharp and commanding. "No. I want the top floor cleared out. One hour. Yes. Bring the car around to…"

"Exit 325," I offer, and Christian seems to remember that I'm there.

"Yes. Book my room at the Peninsula Shanghai. Tell them I'll need it for another night." He ends the call.

"No thank you?" I tease, and Christian presses his lips together.

"Only to Taylor," he finally says, and I raise an eyebrow. "I know all their names, I just don't find it necessary to say thank you after every call," he adds defensively.

"Oh. So you don't think it's necessary to thank them for their service?" I challenge, trying to hide my smile as Christian becomes more flustered by the second.

"No!" Christian runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I pay them for their service," he says, then realizes how much that sounds like hiring servants. "I mean—"

I burst out laughing. It's so funny seeing Christian worked up into a frenzy trying to defend himself. "I was just kidding," I say between gulps of laughter.

"Oh." Christian's brow furrows for a moment as he thinks this through, then decides to smile along. "Okay."

"Mr. Grey."

I sober immediately as I watch for Christian's reaction, wondering if he'll freeze over. But Christian just nods in acknowledgement at the man standing before him. He is just a few years older than Christian himself, dressed smartly in a white shirt and black pants.

"Miss Steele," the man greets, and I stand up to shake his hand. "Taylor?" I say, a slight question in my voice, and he nods, a warm smile on his face. I can't refrain myself from adding, "Nice to meet you, and thanks for searching up my personal information at Christian's request."

"All right. Let's go. Taylor will take the luggage." Christian's voice is short as he stands up and strides from the boarding area, a slight frown on his face. I start to hurry after him, then glance back at Taylor, who's gathering up our suitcases with a little smile. I feel bad, having someone else take my things. But Taylor waves me on cheerfully, and seeing that Christian is slowing his steps to wait for me, I hurry to catch up.

He still has that little frown on his face. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," he replies brusquely and I'm caught by surprise at his tone, suddenly realizing that this is the first time he's spoken to me so sharply.

"Fine, I was just trying to make a joke about Taylor's savviness at finding things out," I snap back, slightly hurt. "Sorry if it wasn't funny enough for you."

He hesitates. Then—"I'm sorry," he mumbles. I glance at him in surprise. The words are strange coming from him; I almost get the feeling that he's rarely ever said them before.

"Well, it's okay," I say, giving him a little bump with my shoulder to get him to laugh it off. "It wasn't a funny joke anyway."

As we walk, I suddenly notice how much attention Christian is attracting. Girls on the sides are whispering, some pulling out their phones to get a picture of him. I see him press his lips together tightly, obviously annoyed.

"Is this normal?" I ask him quietly. "All this…"

"Sometimes," he admits. "Ethan doesn't want the company, so being the second richest heir of the world, and looking quite attractive as well—"

I elbow him in the side—and inhale a sharp breath, surprised at how hard his abdomen is. I try not to let it show in my voice. "You're so narcissistic," I tease.

He rubs his ribs slightly, and I give a small grin. "Well, it's true," he mutters, and then a flitting smile rises to his lips as his smoldering grey eyes turn to meet mine. "Don't you find me attractive?"

I almost trip over my feet. "Excuse me?" I gasp as he reaches out to steady me, his grip tight on my arm. "What kind of question is that?"

"So you do find me attractive." Christian seems amused.

"It's not as if you don't know that yourself," I mutter, embarrassed, as my cheeks flush red.

"Ah, but it's different coming from you." Christian smirks.

I give him a puzzled look. "Why is it different if I'm the one saying it versus another girl?"

"Because when you compliment something, you mean it," he explains like it's obvious. "For most other girls I know, they compliment anything if they think that's what you want to hear."

"Really?" I think back over our conversation.

"When most girls first meet me, they comment _about_ me. Not to me, but about what they've heard, then about what I'm wearing." Christian looks at me. "You haven't even mentioned a single word about how I'm dressed."

I shrug. "Does it matter? You're still the same person."

"Ah. And you demand so little." Christian grins at me. "So you don't want to see me without all this on?" he gestures towards his clothes.

I elbow him again. "Oh, shut _up_!" I mutter.

"Hey! That hurt!"


	6. My Fears, Your Fears

Hey guys! Sorry for not having uploaded for so long, but here's the start to them getting to know each other better, hope you enjoy! Also, I would really appreciate reviews, for anything I could improve on, anything you'd like for them to see in Shanghai, or just anything you like:) Again, most characters belong to E. L. James.

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6\. My Fears, Your Fears

I take my time to draw in the airport as Christian leads me towards the exit. For the first time, I notice the dark blue canvas draped over the entirety of the ceiling, giving the interior the look of a nighttime scenery as a sprinkle of lights dot the canvas like stars.

A memory returns. I'm six, tugging on my mother's hand sleepily in the late evening of one summer. We're in California, inside an art museum of some sort with the rest of our tour group. Everyone has gone off on their own. I take a peek back over my shoulder, and there's my father, strolling right behind us like always. He reaches over to ruffle my hair, and I beam at him.

Inside the museum, it looks nothing like it's ten at night. The ceiling is tall like that of a cathedral, painted sky blue with white clouds drifting overhead. The walls have illusions of actual houses; once, I'm trying to keep my eyes open and myself from yawning again when all of a sudden, I think I'm about to run into a person; giving a little yelp, I jump back, almost knocking into my father. But no, it's just all part of the art on the wall. Humans are hanging up laundry, cooking, walking the dog, leaning out of their windows—and all of it seems so realistic.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Christian suddenly murmurs. His lips are right besides my ear, and a small shiver of delight threads through me.

"I've never actually heard anyone say that in a conversation," I manage.

He raises an eyebrow. "You just have."

"Hmm…" I pretend to ponder. "I wonder what other things you'd say that'd be different from the typical non-billionaire schoolboy," I tease.

Christian's lips twitch, like he's trying to suppress a smile. "Very funny."

I flash him a grin. "Comedian at your service, sir. Glad you find me entertaining."

Christian stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head. But when I look over, there's the slightest bit of a smile on his face, and it gives me a certain sense of satisfaction that I can make him smile.

"So, where are we going?" I ask after a moment. I get the feeling he's not going to tell me, but curiosity gets the best of me.

"You'll see," he replies elusively.

"Oh, come on. That's not fair. I feel like I'm being led blindfolded into a dark room!"

Christian halts in his steps, then turns towards me with his eyebrows raised. "Really?"

I relent a little. "Well, not _quite_ ," I admit. "This is a lot more exciting and a lot less scary."

"You're afraid of the dark?"

I nod. "Which is kind of funny because I'm definitely a night owl," I say, then backtrack a couple of steps to get a better look at the display case of a soup shop. "Mmm, doesn't that one look good?" I point at the bowl of sweet red-bean soup.

Christian gives me a look that seems like he doesn't know whether he should laugh or frown.

"Okay, never mind," I mutter, quickly walking away before the woman at the counter can come over and start talking at me.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as being scared of the dark," Christian says when catches up to me a moment later.

"Yeah?" I finger the gold wristband of my watch—another gift from my mother before she'd gone into her state of deliriousness. "Actually, it's not really something I fear—just something that I dislike."

Christian nods contemplatively for a moment. "How about this—you tell me what your worst fear is, and I'll tell you mine. And no judgement."

Usually I hate things like this. But for some reason, maybe because it's Christian, or maybe because I feel like sharing my greatest fear will levitate it a little from myself, I agree wholeheartedly without even hesitating. "Deal."

Christian takes a deep breath. He doesn't look at me as he blurts out, "I'm scared…of darkness. Of being left alone somewhere in a dark room with the door locked."

It takes me a moment to take this in as I gather what I know of him from what he's told me. _He doesn't know his father. He's adopted._ Perhaps…perhaps it's because of something in his early childhood before his adoption? My mind is whirling, trying to figure out this bizarre statement, but I don't show my curiosity on my face, because the fact he has revealed this to me means a lot.

So I say, "I'm afraid of time. I'm afraid it will take everything I care about away from me. I'm afraid of how fast things change, how something can be there one moment but gone the next. I'm afraid that I'm wasting it, that I won't have enough time to do everything I want. I'm afraid, so afraid, of how fast time goes, how cruel time is."

Christian is silent besides me, and I'm afraid to look up at him, at what his eyes will say. I know he said no judgement, but…

Then I feel his hand reaching for mine—at first hesitantly, a question, like he's asking for permission. I let him hold my hand, let him gently give it a squeeze of reassurance. "Thanks," I whisper gratefully.

"Thank _you_ ," he responds. Then, almost as if he can't help himself, he asks, "You're afraid of time but you're wearing a watch?"

"A gift from my mother," I respond. "But I wear it more because it's out of habit than anything else—I hate being late," I explain.

"Ahh." Christian grins. "That's good, because I hate being late, too."

"Says the person who almost missed the plane," I tease.

"Says the person who left the plane with me," he shoots right back, just as we reach the doors leading outside the airport. He starts going through the regular ones, but I grab his hand before he can take another step and drag him away.

"Revolving doors," I point when he starts to protest. "Why go through the regular doors when you can go through these?"

Christian gives me another one of those looks where he doesn't know if he should laugh or frown. "What's the difference?"

I stare at him disbelievingly. "The difference," I explain as I pull him through behind me, "is that only boring people go through the regular doors."

Christian bursts out laughing. "I've never heard anyone say that before."

"Well, now you have. And you have me to thank for it."

Christian shakes his head, still amused. "Well, you'll have me to thank for your tour of Shanghai. Welcome to the city you were born in but have never visited."


End file.
